not wanting to participateyet needing to explainredeem, avoid offendingall out of…fear of rejection.but of what?of me?my thoughts?my rights?of thinking along different fucking lines?why bother?why does this plague me?when everyone can seeit’s boring, wrong, unnecessaryjust be.

Wanker

We’re all fucking bankersOr an artist of sortsPainter, musician, actorThe lotStuck in this townChasing that dreamDoes anyone rememberWhat that was again?We know how to partyHow to talk ’bout ourselvesIt’s such a clichéGOD it makes me sickYet I wanna joinI wanna be partSo desperate for a piece of___________ (you fill in the blank)

Tuesday melodrama

Deflated, exhausted, worn and used upI feel silly and stupid, like I’ve been spat out.I’ve danced and I’ve partied and asked how you areAt the end of the day it’s all way too “raaaah”.

It was never my game, though I tried hardI wore my best clothes, I lost many a card.I even brought people, friends you might likeBut at the end of the day I might not be the type.

I know that I’ve gained, but I’ve lost a lot tooMaterial things, oh and brain cells – a few!This is how it is, but I wish I could phone‘Cause at the end of the day I’m infatuation prone.

when out of love,hope,normality,curiosityyou make the openest of gesturesand they’re not thrown back in your face with answersbut ignored completelyas if they were just flatspaces like all the otherslike nothing happened

when talk that’s startedto provoke amusementends up in boring declarations ofsincerityand you don’t know where to lookhow awkward, how misinterpreted

when despite knowing ityou stubbornly, aggressively, obsessivelykeep going the wrong waypushing on and onapplying, beggingperversely pleasuring from others’shiny, streamline happinesswhilst personally refusing to do the same

and when you get thatreal sense of achievementfrom finally waving a prescriptionso you can say “I’ve made itnow. I’m one of them.”